


Lesser x Haunting

by brocon



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alcohol, Character Study, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Referenced Child Abandonment, Speculation on Pariston's Past, tagged as non-con just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocon/pseuds/brocon
Summary: Everything about Pariston is like being aware of your own breathing. You don’t want to be, there’s no point to it, but once the notion is out in the open you become aware of your breathing.Pariston torments Ging. Ging discovers pieces of Pariston's past and regrets it.
Relationships: Ging Freecs/Pariston Hill
Comments: 15
Kudos: 60





	Lesser x Haunting

When Pariston asks him to step into the taxi, he does it on the very first request. As his head bows beneath the low threshold, there’s a prickling in his ears that sounds suspiciously like Pariston muttering about _having finally collared him_. It’s a hot day, and this word, _collar_ , is enough to make Ging stick a finger beneath the collar of his shirt. The action doesn’t go unnoticed. The taxi window is framed with the widening smile of Pariston when the door shuts behind him. Everything about Pariston is like being aware of your own breathing. You don’t want to be, there’s no point to it, but once the notion is out in the open you become aware of your breathing.

They go over underpasses and under overpasses that Ging is unfamiliar with because this is the city Pariston grew up in, not him. Ging could easily memorize a map, but something about the way Pariston’s face tenses up whenever he even thinks of picking one up makes him stop. Maybe Pariston doesn’t want him knowing how many slum areas there are, or deducing, through the little anecdotes that Pariston has told him throughout the years, which specific slum he grew up in.

Ging doubts his memory would go back that far and knows for certain that he doesn’t care enough to try; but he allows Pariston to strongarm him into avoiding maps and remaining utterly lost in a massive city with only Pariston as his guide. The city is yellow and pink, like strawberry lemonade, with storefronts and street signs looking like a package of candy busted open. But they’re on Main Street, in a very nice area where the conference is being held. Big names in attendance, big names spending big money in this zip code. He knows there’s darkness somewhere, past where the money reaches.

Pariston’s quips are all very guarded, nothing personal and no emotion, as he points out landmarks. “That little café is just darling, it has the best croissants and coffee. Well, maybe except for the coffee on Ruby Street, but that’s a bit out of the way.” His finger gets millimeters from the glass as he points, as if he wants Ging to think he’s excited enough to touch it, but he never touches it. “Or at least,” he breathes an audible breath, “too far from our hotel to walk.”

Pariston allows the fat pause that follows _our hotel_ , knowing Ging didn’t agree to that. Ging just shaved two days ago and already the hair has grown in rugged and irritated, he scratches and crosses his ankles, daring a look into those pothole eyes, born somewhere without the funds to fix them. “I couldn’t pass up the best coffee in the city, out of the way or no. Maybe I’ll find a little hostel just outside the city instead.”

They both know he doesn’t know where Ruby Street is or if there’s a hostel near. “Changing your hotel just for some coffee? Don’t be silly. I’ll go and get us coffees in the morning and bring them back before the conference starts.”

“Then I’ll come with you. I’d love to see where the best coffee is made.”

His smile sinks deeper into his face and Ging knows he’s called some sort of bluff. Ruby Street is either a lie or a personal relic of his past that he doesn’t want Ging anywhere near. “We’ll see if you can wake up in time. We both know you love your beauty sleep.” He pats Ging’s hand like he’s a child, the palm smooth and moisturized obsessively, and all Ging can think of is his unwillingness to touch the window. Ging is not glass; nor does his skin hold fingerprints or evidence of being touched.

The hotel is obnoxiously grandiose. Ging walks in with his scuffed duffle bag strapped to his chest, trying not to watch other people watch him shamble in with a wet, sweat-soaked collar from the taxi lacking air and Pariston’s constant proximity. He really should have expected this—or perhaps he did expect this, he just hadn’t expected himself to be so bothered by it. Pariston is a much more consistent man than he is.

“Oh my,” Pariston lowers his voice and puts it on a cushion just as grandiose as the hotel, “I didn’t realize you’d packed so _lightly_. I don’t imagine you have a full suit in that bag.”

“I’m renting one. Easier than worrying about wrinkles the entire damn way.” He wants to push forward, past Pariston and this conversation, but it’s then he realizes he’s not the one who booked the rooms; he has to stand in front of the counter, watching security watch him, and wait for Pariston to step forward about their reservation.

Pariston clicks his tongue, keeping them in limbo in the middle of the glitzy waiting room, puts his hands on his hips. “You should know _rental suits_ ,” he says as though it’s a dirty word, “are loathful and generic to the point of insult. Do you want to look like a groomsman? A limo driver?”

Ging knows if he argues Pariston will make him stand here longer. A security guard checks his watch, taps the glass in a fashion that makes another guard notice. A patron has had a cold forkful of salmon hovering midair since the moment he walked in, as if Ging is a man that high society can’t bear to eat in front of. Ging has as much money in the bank as anyone else here, but it still makes him feel like when he was a boy, caught pickpocketing sailors, his grandma dragging him into the thicket of drunk men and made him apologize. He was _little weasel_ after that. They’d spit on the floorboards when he walked by.

“This is an important funding presentation, Ging. You can’t show up half-washed and unshaven in front of Mr. Sungi, you’ll let the entire expedition down.”

“Rat, shut up for a second.”

“I suppose if they reject you we can spend the rest of the trip touring the city instead of making nice with the wallets. But I thought you were here for a purpose? Not to be woefully unprepared. Ah, well, whatever you decide is fine by me. It won’t affect me, although your team will be disappointed.”

Knowing what Pariston wants to hear, he relents. “What do you propose?”

He touches the bridge of his nose, unable to contain the way his eyes whip down on Ging. “Lucky for you I had my luggage sent ahead. It’s already up in the room and happens to have your best suit! Almost _dusty_ it’s been rotting in the back of your closet for so long.”

“When were you in my house—”

“I had it let out a little too. I could tell it needed it.”

He’s boiling, the gold on the walls and in the floor making his face red. Usually he’s amused, if a bit exasperated, with Pariston. But this city is making Pariston into a yapping golden mutt with the venom of a viper, leaving Ging with nothing to do but keep his hands to himself and his ankles covered. He thinks about how ancient people’s tombs have been exhumed, gold stolen, just so assholes like this can slap it on hotel walls and grind it into flakes to put on parfait.

Pariston knows this. Ging gets drunk sometimes and definitely-doesn’t-cry over the robbed graves, the smashed sanctity, the utter arrogance that comes with disinterring a grave for profit and pride. Pariston knows this. And still he drags Ging to this place, dragging him into the middle of the room like some diseased carcass on newly-shined floors.

Finally, Pariston releases him from limbo, approaches the counter, and flashes his ID to an instantly-apologetic security staff. He never stops smiling and barely says a word, but they bow and present him with some kind of giftcard in apology for their almost-transgression. Pariston lets them, of course.

When he returns to Ging, a security guard is at his heels like a puppy, bowing and apologizing to Ging for mistaking him for a guttersnipe. Ging must have had _such_ a hard travel from such a distance, it wasn’t very _understanding_ of the staff to make such assumptions. Just so.

“Thanks, but I always look like this.” Ging grabs Pariston by the wrist, hard, sick to death of letting Pariston control their pace. “Show me to my damn room.”

“ _Our_ damn room.”

“What?”

“I know you hate waste and extravagance. Why get two rooms when we’re just a couple of bachelors? No need, no need. These rooms are plenty big enough for two people like us who value the hard-earned dollar.” There are two beds in the room and Ging lets his shoulders slump and his body relax a bit. They’ve shared closer quarters before, so despite him feeling chipped away yet again he knows it’ll be fine. There are two gift baskets, one on each bed, which are possibly another hasty apology for the rudeness of the staff. Or they’re common in all of the rooms. “Don’t look so shocked,” Pariston says. “Of course there are two beds. We’re bachelors, not lovers. Though I’m sure you fooled some with the way you grabbed onto me like that.”

Pariston plops down, choosing the bed closest to the door so that Ging would have to pass by him if he tried to slip out in the middle of the night. His finely-manicured fingers pick through the fruits and chocolates in the basket, checking for imperfections so he can log the complaints in the back of his mind, and wraps his hand around the throat of a stuffed monkey with heart-button eyes.

Ging has already deposited his entire duffel bag into the dresser drawer without unzipping it; he sits on the other bed, kicks his shoes to the floor, and rests his bare feet on the plush comforter. He grabs an apple from the surface of the basket and puts the rest of it on the floor. His basket has a stuffed rhino. No heart eyes. “What are we, children?”

Pariston presses the monkey to his chest, offering acceptance where Ging has delivered rejection. “Your son would just love these, I bet.”

He does this. Ever since he set eyes on Gon he started saying _your son would like this_ , _your son would enjoy this_ , or _does your son like this kind of thing?_ at every opportunity—every cartoon or toy despite not knowing Gon from any other child on the planet. He doesn’t know a damn thing about Gon. But perhaps that’s his entire point, to make Ging think about their combined knowledge of Gon being dust.

Ging pulls out his phone, leaning back against the needlessly massive stack of pillows. “I need to go over the presentation, so could you at least keep to yourself for a few hours?”

With a shrug he sets the monkey down. “I’ll make dinner plans then.”

“Don’t bother. I’m ordering room service,” he says, biting the apple and waving it in a half-circle. Closer to the truth: he’ll just eat all of the fruit and chocolate in the basket and fall asleep early after having a few swigs of the rum he packed.

Pariston’s voice is honey. “I didn’t mean for us. I have plans that don’t involve you, you know.”

Ging’s face scorches. “Good. I wish you’d get more of ‘em.”

When Pariston shuts the door softly behind him, giving Ging the first bit of privacy since they got on the plane twenty-four hours ago, Ging feels like screaming as loudly as he possibly can. Christ, he’s exhausting! He’s smothering in the way an overbearing parent is, the way Mito sometimes is when she makes him tuck his shirt in or wear a fitted button-down or put a cloth napkin on his lap. But his smothering doesn’t feel like love, just punishment, like he’s a spirit sent to earth to haunt Ging for the bad shit he’s done.

He shimmies out of his pants and sits on the bed in his boxers, scrolling through the notes on his phone, occasionally saying a ten-dollar word out loud to make sure he doesn’t sound like a child saying it. He’s thankful for Cheadle, who insisted he stop willfully living in the previous century and buy a smartphone already. Turns out it wasn’t some ploy to get him on social media—he can quickly pay sums of money to people, listen to lectures, and read books, among other things. But even now he’s not sure why she cares enough to nag him into bettering his life. A lot of people do that to him, and he doesn’t understand it. Not at all.

Nor does he understand why he has to kiss ass to secure funding for a trip he can afford himself. Well, he understands it practically. He has to kowtow to Mr. Sungi, a man so rich he creates more laws than politicians do, explain his expedition, humbly ask for funding he doesn’t even need and then accept it just to gain entry into a country that won’t let him in without some fat gold ring waving him on. It’s all red tape and branding, a sponsorship only to ensure Mr. Sungi can slap his logo on whatever Ging’s team discovers. There’s no way around letting Mr. Sungi claw around in ancient discoveries like it’s a bowl of candy. It’s maddening.

Pariston loves politics. When there’s push and pull going on, it’s a challenge for him to create a seesaw, watching powerful people struggle while he innovates and circumvents. That, along with it being in his home city, it’s no wonder that Pariston couldn’t keep his nose out of it.

He unwraps a small box of chocolates, licking the fingers on his left hand while scrolling with his right. He wonders who Pariston is meeting but then gets lost in his notes again, imagining himself trying to lead a discussion in front of suits, convincing them of the validity of his work when he despises having to justify himself.

Hours fly by. There’s a knock at the door. His battery is down to 15% and he hasn’t yet dug the charger out of his duffel bag. A woman in a livery carrying a tray of food bows slightly at the waist before stepping past him, setting down the tray and a bottle of wine before bowing out of the room. No attempt to wait for a tip, he notices. Either Pariston has already tipped her when placing the order or it’s against the culture of this world that Pariston comes from.

He’s starving, he realizes, and wastes no time trying to classify the cheesy pasta dish before devouring it, not bothering to pour the wine into a glass as he sucks it down. Pariston always prides himself on his ability to pair wine with food, which is good because Ging splashes the dark wine into his mouth before he’s even swallowed the pasta. Sauce splatters the comforter in flecks so small there’s no way anyone will notice. By the time he’s finished the meal, the bottle of wine is more than half-gone, and he hasn’t touched an ounce of the glass of water that came with it. He starts feeling the alcohol as soon as he lays down his fork—it hits him all at once—and he flops back onto the bed to stare up at the ceiling.

His phone is on 10% now and he doesn’t feel like getting up to find the charger. He finds the remote, head fuzzy and cheeks numbing, and scrolls all of the channels three full times until he lands on some dramatized history documentary on an ancient people Ging has already visited, already held their artifacts in his bare hands, already drawn up his conclusions about their culture, class system, living conditions, and overall lives. He hates these dramatized documentaries, which either make them into savages or misunderstood geniuses, whichever is better for ratings. If there is even a hint of cannibalism, these television shows make them all into a nation of zombies.

But Ging turns it up all the way, inebriated enough to argue with the television while his phone lays at the foot of the bed, life slowly leaving it.

He’s snoring in no time, the left half of his body beneath the covers and the right half kicking and clawing at the mattress beneath him. The television is still blaring, the light in the room still on. When Pariston comes in, he turns it off, takes Ging’s tray from the foot of the bed to prevent it from being kicked over, and turns the volume down on the front of the television. The remote is lost somewhere in the twisted sheets of Ging’s bed.

Pariston won’t just leave him alone. He smells like sweet wine and warm dinner even better than what Ging ate as he leans over puts his hands on Ging’s half-conscious body, straightening clothes and sheets, shuffling limp limbs until he can get Ging’s shirt off. Ging is sweaty, flushed from the alcohol and excitement of the inaccurate information on the documentary. Pariston finds the remote, putting it on the nightstand. Ging groans, wiggles his toes, and stretches lazily out of Pariston’s reach. Hating how gentle Pariston’s fingers are. Gentle and effective, not wasting an ounce of energy or strength in doing what needs done. Ghosting. Ghosting. Until Ging feels his drunken body lean into the motions instead of flopping away, giving in and getting hard.

As though he’s still routinely straightening Ging’s messes, Pariston slides beneath his hand beneath Ging’s pants. There’s no underwear to fight with. The docuseries is still audible, especially since Pariston is dead quiet. Above the nothing comes a deep narrator’s voice, confidently plowing through words he can’t pronounce as he declares this ancient tribe a cult of devil-worshippers who put curses on their enemies, commanding dark spirits to drag them into hell in retaliation for the most heinous crimes, such as rape, murder, and the dishonoring of a tribe’s god. For lesser crimes, the curses would be lighter, the demons following over their heads or perching on their shoulders for the rest of their lives.

Pariston is listening to it, because he says, “Where do you think this would fall? Lesser haunting or full hell?”

Ging says nothing, trying to focus on coming.

Pariston leans over further, as if his proximity is the problem. “Ging?”

“Hell,” he chokes out, Pariston’s breath on the side of his throat when he turns his head away.

Pariston pumps faster then, rewarding acquiescence, not caring about the answer.

Ging twists his body as he comes, the narrator’s voice bouncing around in his head instead of something sexy. Even if he tried to think of a hot woman, his drunken brain wouldn’t hang on to it anyway.

“What about child abandonment?” He leaves Ging’s pants askew, leaves the cum cooling in the front of his pants, and withdraws his hand. Pariston knows he heard him, the light of the television throwing a spotlight on his winding smirk. His cheeks look gaunt in the flickering light, explaining why he prefers a room be fully lit or completely dark while he’s occupying it. When Ging opens his eyes again, Pariston is no longer there. The water is running in the bathroom.

The television is still on when Ging wakes up, groggy and assaulted by heady sunlight through his eyelids. His sinuses feel jammed, mouth dry, and wet with sweat on the hem of his clothes as he forces his eyes open. The deep inhale he tries to take makes him cough, but he picks up a sharp whiff of coffee that forces his eyes open.

“I told you so,” Pariston’s voice is clearer than the morning, more jarring than the coffee, shaking his brain awake immediately.

“What time is it?”

“I already got the coffee, I’m not your alarm.”

“Shit. My phone. Fuck.” Feeling like an alligator in a death roll, he flips his body until he grabs his phone at the foot of the bed. Dead. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Coffee?”

“Why didn’t you wake me? Or at least plug my phone in?”

“Ging, we aren’t lovers,” Pariston says with the as-a-matter-of-fact lilt of a school girl.

“Oh, fuck off,” Ging says, rolling the rest of the way off the mattress, loudly banging open the dresser and digging for his charger.

Pariston takes a loud sip, crosses his legs from his seat on the side of his already-made bed. “There’s no time for that, you know.”

He can’t check the time because his phone is still dead, and when he plugs it in it’s too lifeless to kick on right away, but he knows Pariston isn’t lying. The position of the sun says he’s got 30 minutes, maybe 45 at the most, to get to the conference center and have his ass in that meeting. It’s ugly, the gratefulness that rises up in him for his stolen suit hanging on Pariston’s standing rack in the corner of the room.

After grabbing a clean pair of underwear, he stumbles into the bathroom and strips down, humiliated breaths escaping his clenched teeth as he sees the stains. But he doesn’t have time for that. Can’t afford to even think about it for a second as he lathers up a washcloth and scrubs down his pits and genitals, standing under the spray of the shower for a second to rinse it away, and toweling off. There’s a mini container of mouthwash, and he tosses it back like he did the wine, the alcohol of it making him slightly nauseous, and he spits it right away. He doesn’t have time to dig in his bag for his deodorant, so he grabs Pariston’s unsuspecting tube on the sink, wincing at the floral smell as he slaps it on. Curly black hairs are left on the surface as he puts the cap back on, dropping it accidentally in the sink and leaving it as he pulls on his clean underwear.

Pariston smiles around his coffee as Ging pulls on the suit he hasn’t worn in five years. No sense in trying to confirm or deny any kind of gratitude. It wouldn’t change anything, only widen the rodent-with-cheese smile. Instincts sensing a fashion struggle, Pariston stands and closes the gap between them, straightening hems and fixing the knot on his tie. “I do hope you made use of your study time last night. I doubt your phone has charged to even five percent.”

He’s right. Ging tears away from Pariston’s grasp, like he’s a racehorse out of a starting gate, and leaves his phone behind as he lunges for the door.

“Ging, wait!” Pariston turns around with the second coffee in his hand.

On principle, he almost tells Pariston to shove it up his ass. But he’s tired and his head is pounding despite his brain not working at all. He could use some coffee. It’s in a to-go cup, so there’s no reason not to take it. “Ruby Street?” He says, the comforting warmth seeping through the cup and up his wrist.

Pariston takes a step back at that, as if he hadn’t expected Ging to remember. Needing to always have the last word, he says, “Nice deodorant.”

It’s an absolute disaster. It could hardly have gone worse if someone took a shit on the table. The wallets were expectedly pompous, practically fanning themselves with wads of cash as they gawked at Ging’s still-not-good-enough suit—god knows what they would have said had he actually shown up in a cheap rental—as Ging pried the corners of his mouth apart, using every muscle in his face to _keep smiling_ , as if these men had any respect for that kind of behavior anyway.

He felt like a child trying to remember if he’s cute enough to get away with breaking something precious. And he might as well have broken the family heirloom, because he forgot nearly every vital piece of information in his notes, resorting to stumbling along and talking about what his team hoped to find, which meant absolutely nothing to the wallets. They looked _bored_ , starting smaller conversations with each other while Ging was still speaking. Anyone else showing that kind of disrespect would have gotten Ging’s foot up their ass, but he had to flop around like some kind of assistant on their payroll.

And the worst part is, every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flashing lights of the television on the ceiling of the hotel room. Saw them lighting up Pariston’s face. The narrator talking about savages.

Mr. Sungi claps him on the shoulder at the end, tells him he’s a good sport and that he’ll hear something soon on whether the light is green, yellow, or red. As if he’s a child who needs terms explained to him using traffic lights. As if the light has a mind of its own and no one knows how it will turn out. Powerful men who pretend they’re powerless when it suits them are the lowest form of parasite.

Pariston’s standing outside the door of the conference room, holding Ging’s phone conspicuously.

Ging wrenches it from his hand, feeling himself resent the now-full bar of battery, and starts deleting all of his notes. Like burning letters from a particularly toxic ex-lover.

“How was the coffee?”

“What an absolute joke.”

“Come now, that’s not nice.”

“The coffee was the best part about that shitshow.”

His smile morphs. A rare transformation showing a modicum more sincerity than usual. It’s as if Ging has personally complimented him. As if Pariston’s hands ground the beans and brewed the cup lovingly for him. “That’s great! Glad you loved it.”

“It’s really not.” He had planned to stay longer, to see a bit of the conference and do any further necessary schmoozing with these men who decided the existence of this expedition. But it’s all ash now, no recovering from that horrendous meeting. Ging gets on his phone and orders his plane ticket home. “I’m flying out this afternoon,” he says.

“I’ll inform the hotel that we’ll be checking out at noon.”

Ging grunts.

“Lunch?” Pariston asks.

“Yeah.”

Pariston leads him to a hole-in-the-wall place they don’t have to take a taxi to reach, and as the wind blows his hair in every direction Ging allows himself to feel grateful, even if only because the suits in the boardroom were much worse than the one leading him to eat. They get a booth so Ging can take off his suit jacket and button-down. He tosses them on the bench next to him in a ball, leaving him in dress pants and a tank top. There are other things on the menu, fancy wraps and burgers and artisanal fried cheeses, but he just wants breakfast food to nurse his hangover and help him pretend the entire morning never happened.

“Pancakes? I didn’t think you’d be in such a youthful mood after a sour meeting like that.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” He takes a sip of the coffee the waitress brings him and misses the taste of the Ruby Street coffee. Not that he will tell Pariston. But he was right, it is pretty damn good coffee.

“You should get these,” Pariston says, energy seeping from him as if he stole all of Ging’s. He points to the menu at some smiley-faced pancakes for children.

“I swear to god, Pariston.”

“Your son would like these!”

It’s the one and a half cups of coffee he’s drank in the past hour, but his blood is on fire again. He slips his eyes closed and sees the television flickering again, feels himself twisting in the sheets, coming hard and hearing the words _child abandonment_. Vomit and heartburn rise in the back of his throat. “Knock that shit off.”

Pariston lays down the menu, so gently, like its glass. “Maybe giving him a call would make you feel better after such a hard morning?”

“Seriously. I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m great, but I’m not family. What about your cousin? I’m sure she has the right words to pick up your spirits. What was her name—Mito? I think I saw a photo once. She’s very pretty, in a plain kind of way.”

He already knows he’s making a spectacle of himself before he slams his fist down on the table, but he’s about to explode if he doesn’t do something to shut Pariston up. The sound makes the waitress drop her tray from across the room. Glass shatters. Her sob makes him jump to his feet and briskly walk out of the restaurant, head swimming and stomach abandoning its hungry demands in place of a sinking feeling.

Hailing a cab, he knows Pariston isn’t following. But he feels his presence still. Feels his presence in this whole damn city. He just wants to leave as soon as possible, grab his duffle bag from the ugly gilded bastion Pariston had checked them into and put rapid and massive distance between himself and his abject failure.

“Where to?” The cabbie hangs his arm out the window. His nails are bitten short and jagged.

Ging hesitates. He almost says the name of the hotel, but a vengeful itch in him says otherwise. “Ruby Street. Coffee shop.”

“You got an address for me?”

“No.”

“Name of the shop?”

“No.”

The cabbie shrugs and lights a cigarette, cracking his window a little bit and adjusting his rearview mirror. When Ging doesn’t complain, the cabbie pulls the taxi out, willing to play this game as long as he can smoke. The buildings begin to age, shrink, and decay and the taxi takes him in a different direction, the slums emerging like they are finally comfortable enough with Ging’s presence to show themselves. More people are outside, sitting instead of standing, colors dulling, sidewalks cracking, windows opening, trashcans filling and spilling over onto the streets. Tarps and trash bags begin existing and then multiply.

Pariston hasn’t seen a photo of Mito. There’s no way. But it doesn’t really matter if he has or hasn’t, Ging realizes, because it’s nothing but an exercise to put her face in Ging’s mind. Same with Gon. It’s a way to control him, to make him think about people he would rather not think about because it hurts, and that pain distracts him from his goals and his day-to-day life.

Your son. Your son. Your son. He would like this. What would he like? Maybe you should call him. You know, your son. The one you left. Your son. Your son. The life you’re responsible for! He looks a lot like you. You know the one.

Things begin to look a lot less urban, open fields popping up head. They turn.

“Alright. We’re on Ruby Street. You tell me where you want me to stop.” He tosses out his cigarette and instantly lights another, knowing Ging will be the last passenger for awhile who lets him smoke, because he’s going back to the strawberry lemonade part of the city. Back to the money and the suits that can’t smell like a cabbie’s cheap smokes.

“Do you know of a café?”

“There’s a little diner up ahead. Don’t know that I’d call it a café.”

“Good coffee?”

“Amazing coffee.”

“Take me there.”

The driveway is uneven gravel that crunches under the tires as he parks. Ging hands him a huge bill of the local currency, not remembering how much it’s worth in Jenny. “Can you wait? It’ll only be a few minutes.”

He shifts into park and leans his chair back, fanning the bill through the smoky air. “It’s a plan, chief.”

The diner is dinky, only five tables and a small bar. The ding of the bell sounds like it needs replaced or oiled, but the rest of it is pretty tidy. There’s an elderly couple in the far corner and a police officer sitting at the bar. Ging grimaces and sits next to the cop, happy he doesn’t intend to actually eat here. Figures of authority always gave him nasty indigestion.

A young girl, no more than sixteen, comes out from the back with a plate of ribs and sets them in front of the cop, turning her attention to Ging. She’s blond, but it’s got a dirtier quality to it than Pariston’s, with a red hue beneath it. Eyes the same dark, pothole color. Ging realizes he’s staring, picking apart her features like a kidnapper hunting for prey, and drops his eyes down to the table.

“Have order?” Her speech is a bit shaky, as if she doesn’t speak much of the common tongue. Pariston never mentioned another language being spoken by the people here, but Ging supposes that’s because everyone speaks the language of foreign money in the big city.

He doesn’t really want to order anything, but he needs to make sure. “Coffee.”

It’s then that he becomes sure. She smiles and it’s identical, features her pulling in the exact same way. As if Pariston’s warped, demi-sincere smile bloomed fully into sincerity. “My specialty.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She doesn’t get it, nodding and turning around to pour him a cup.

Even if his wildest suspicions are right, he doesn’t know what to do about it. When she sets his cup down, he says, “Do you know Pariston?”

“What?”

Suddenly the dull roar of the diner is loud. He raises his voice and feels awkward for doing so. “Do you know a man named Pariston Hill?”

She shakes her head. “No. No Pariston.”

“He came in here this morning to get coffee. Two coffees.” He shows her two fingers, then drops them when he realizes he’s being patronizing.

Her brows come together in irritation, the same way Pariston’s do. “No Pariston. Many people come here.”

Many people, including Ging, have already suspected Pariston of changing his name. It is far from unheard of for a member of the Zodiacs, or for Hunters from torn and broken origins. Her confusion doesn’t mean anything. He stops pushing. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Thank you.”

“More order?”

He taps the side of the mug. “Can I get this to-go?”

Her irritation mounts higher, looking down at the mug he just forced her to dirty for no reason. “Yes, sir.” She takes it and turns her back to him. Her nails are clean, shiny, and even. Pariston perched on the side of Ging’s desk, holding a nail buff, comes to mind.

The cop stretches his arms lazily, high above his head. “This Pariston—did he do something?”

It’s weird hearing Pariston’s name on so many strangers’ lips. “You could say that.”

He taps his badge, as if it isn’t already obvious that he’s in uniform. “Need me to keep a lookout?”

“No, that’s okay.”

The liquid jumps inside the cup as she sets it down too roughly in front of him, crossing her arms and tucking her ankle behind the other. Her shoes, unlike her nails, are falling apart and filthy. “More order?”

“No more order.” He lays down a huge bill, even larger than the one he gave the cabbie. It feels grimy to throw around money like this—like he’s one of the wallets he just wasted his morning trying to please. But the more money he gives away now the less he has to re-exchange for Jenny on the return trip. And he’s made her life hard enough in the five minutes he’s been here. She deserves it. “No change.”

She glances at the cop as if this is some illegal activity, then she slides it off the table and slips it into the front of her apron. Only after it is safely in her apron does she give him a genuinely happy smile, all of her cares an irritation forgotten. It’s a smile he’s definitely never seen on Pariston. In fact, he doubts he ever will. The fact that this is the closest he will ever come to seeing that look on Pariston’s face hollows out his stomach.

She says, “Thank you, sir.”

He wasn’t going to pry this hard, but with her mood so improved he risks it. “Can I ask your name?”

Arriving back to the hotel, her smile stays with him. All of the information he’s learned has only given him more questions; it feels useless to try to deduce or solve anything about Pariston’s past. Much like the rest of this city, he plans to just let its relationship to Pariston exist as the half-mystery it always will be. The half-mystery that Pariston prefers it stay. But the smile. The smile is something new that he will walk away with. It is something that changes everything.

He sees it when he walks in the room, Pariston’s face an empty mimic of the smile. He’s holding a container of Ging’s leftover pancakes. The suit jacket and button-down that Ging balled up in the booth are laying on the bed. “Where—”

It’s not often Pariston’s words stop on their own. It’s not often his face falls so quickly, completely taken off-guard, eyes actually widening and color draining from his face as his eyes land on the to-go cup of coffee. It doesn’t even have a label. But they both know what it is and where it’s from.

Ging swirls the liquid in the cup, takes his chance to speak, and likes how it jabs. He likes how, for the first time on this trip, he feels in control of the situation. “She looks like you.” And then walks past him, packing his things as quickly as he can. His plane is leaving soon and he’s more than had his fill of this place. And of Pariston.

Voice barely audible, Pariston says, “Are you stupid?”

Ging ignores him as he shoves his charger into the duffle bag. Unable to see his face or read his voice, his brain tries to fill in the rest of what he could mean: _Are you stupid?_ Why would you go there? _Are you stupid?_ You’re completely off the mark, I don’t know her. _Are you stupid?_ It doesn’t even matter to me. _Are you stupid?_ I’ll fucking kill you if you try to hold this over me.

Ging says, “Now maybe you’ll leave my family out of your mouth.”

He’s in the middle of lifting the bag out from the drawer when Pariston grabs him from behind by the throat, causing him the bag to drop to the floor. The bottle of rum shatters inside it.

He knew Pariston was there already. He’s not afraid of him; lifts his chin so that Pariston knows he’s not going to struggle against some childish strangling. In fact, it’s easy to break free from this. Pariston isn’t even holding his arms or restraining his shoulders. Any other time, Ging would hit his wrist, breaking the weakest point of the hold, pivot around, and knock him off-balance.

But something is nagging him in the back of his skull, telling him he doesn’t want to see Pariston’s face. Pariston’s energy is off color, his breathing patterns abandoned, the temperature in his palms far from normal. The fact that Pariston’s grip is easy to break is the most concerning sign of all. Even if he were playing around— _especially_ if he were playing around, he wouldn’t make it this easy.

It sounds like Pariston’s throat is constricting as he says again, “Are you stupid?”

The fingers tighten. Ging decides to let it happen.

When he’s yanked back, his hand knocks the lukewarm coffee off the dresser and splashes it into the open mouth of his bag. He curses and is shoved forward again, a hand in his hair pushing him until he’s bent over the foot of his bed. Staring at his suit jacket up close, he can see the new stitching from where Pariston had it let out. Memorized the size of his body. As if reading his mind, Pariston’s other hand lands on his soft stomach, nails grabbing angrily through the fabric of his tank top, tearing out stray body hair. Pariston’s frame is shaking behind him like a foreign animal in a hopeless wasteland, Ging not knowing if playing dead is the best method at this point but freezes anyway. Running or fighting back are bad options when not knowing how a livid, desperate beast will react.

The flickering of the TV is behind his eyes again when the button of his dress pants comes open, Pariston’s shadow climbing the walls even in broad daylight. His pants pool to the floor and he wonders if it was worth it to disinter a relic from Pariston’s tomb for no other reason than to piss him off. Just to get a single return blow in on a stupid game Pariston made up in the first place.

He grabs Ging’s balls and squeezes, hard, as he grinds into him from the back. Still shaking, movements still jerky. Ging’s not prepared to think about the implications of this malfunction.

Pariston suddenly shoves into Ging with great effort, groaning and spitting, no doubt uncomfortable for them both. But worse for Ging.

Tilting his head up, he winces and bites down on his dry lips. When he opens his eyes back up he sees the rhino and monkey, sitting side by side on Ging’s pillow, lovingly placed. They watch Pariston's dick slide in and out of him. Only they know what his expression looks like.

This isn’t full hell, he thinks, the pain making him jump when Pariston squeezes his balls harder. He hisses, “Fuck,” and it carries through the empty room with the sound of the slow, angry slapping of flesh. Anger is only the skin Pariston’s fear wears. Fear of being pinned down, found out, dissected. Fear of someone picking up any meaningful information about him. It must be exhausting to constantly sweep up after yourself, to be on the lookout for anyone who wants to be close to you. Ging knows that’s why Pariston hangs around him. Why he fucks him. Ging is not glass. He doesn’t cling or want anything. His skin doesn’t hold fingerprints or evidence of being touched.

Ging has breached their unspoken contract by seeing her face, knowing her name. Maybe Ging’s not such a great guy either. Maybe he deserves Pariston—or rather, brought Pariston upon himself like some ancient curse that all people who disinter graves deserve. This pain is nothing Ging hasn’t had before, so he lets the curse wash over him, the demon thrust into him, the distressed breath pounding the back of his neck.

The sun is high in the sky now and they’re late checking out of the hotel. Gon appears in his mind’s eye as if Pariston has suddenly said his name. But Pariston doesn’t say anything. He comes inside Ging’s raw body, the pain resonating differently when he finally pulls out. Pain when it’s there and pain when it’s not. Child abandonment.

The kiss that is planted on the back of his neck means Pariston will kill him someday because he saw that girl’s face. Ging thinks of her smile. He thinks of Gon’s smile. For a moment he hears Pariston’s voice saying, “Your son would like her!”

But that’s not what happens. Pariston does his pants back up, tucks and straightens himself back to perfection in an instant. Shoes clicking heavily across the floor, he lets the door close quietly behind him, leaving Ging to listen to his own breathing and the echo of her name. The chill of the air on his bare legs without Pariston’s body heat makes him shiver all the way up to the empty, aching feeling in his hips. He wants to bleach the part of his brain that contains her name and smile, but an exorcism isn’t what he deserves. The room is choked with the smell of spilled coffee and rum as Ging’s flight leaves without him.

**Author's Note:**

> What do you imagine Pariston's past to be? Please leave me a comment!! Gimme a heart, a quote you liked, your opinion - anything and everything is appreciated. I love you all!
> 
> Thank you for all of your love and support, you can find out more about me and ways to support my writing on https://twitter.com/shiroppan
> 
> Love,  
> Brocon ❤️❤️


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